


The Only Exception

by didsomeonesaybioshock



Category: BioShock
Genre: Angst, Best Friends, Death, First Kiss, First Love, First Time, Flirting, Fluff, Friendship, Friendship/Love, Heartbreak, Loss, at some point, lots of flirting wow they flirt a lot, lots of fluff too, lots of smut eventually, more tags as I write more chapters, not now but eventually
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-03-29
Updated: 2016-04-07
Packaged: 2018-05-29 21:24:54
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 5,403
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6394393
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/didsomeonesaybioshock/pseuds/didsomeonesaybioshock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Frank Hartley has lied his entire life. It was nothing personal; it was just who he was. He regularly fabricated his name, his past, his intentions, his occupation; anything necessary to get what he deserved. When it came to his cynical demeanor and precarious deceptions, no one was safe from his wrath. And that meant no one. </p><p>Except one person.</p><p>She was his one and only exception. </p><p>An extensive AU Bioshock fiction that focuses on the relationship between Moira Maines and Frank Hartley (eventually to become the infamous Frank Fontaine). A look into the 30+ years of the couples' friendship, love, heartbreak, struggles and joys that lead up to the events of the Bioshock game.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1929

            The first thing Moira noticed about the orphan boy was his accent. She had been skipping heartily around the grimy downtown district of Bedford Park, lightly humming the tune to “Danny Boy” when she crashed right into him. Her head of light brown waves smacked the pavement first and her syrup colored eyes momentarily saw a shade of bright white. Moira could faintly make out a thick Bronx accent over the ringing in her eardrums.

            “Aye, punk, watch where you’re goin’-“ His face slowly took form through the white of the sky, his bright blue eyes giving her a quick one-over as he spoke. His wild deep brown locks hung over the tips of his ears and threatened to cover his eyes. His nose took up half of his face. But the only thing Moira could think about was his accent.

            “Hell-o, anyone in there? You deaf ‘er somethin’?” He drawled, raising a bushy eyebrow at the young girl. Moira continued to stare at his face; the bright sunlight accenting his fairly chiseled jawline. She replayed his words in her mind, his tone tattooing itself in her brain. After a long moment she finally found the strength to speak.

            “Nah, I ain’t deaf,” she croaked, offering the boy a small smile. She suddenly wished she had taken her Ma’s advice and thrown on that lavender gown she had sewn together the week prior. Instead, she sported a pair of grey Beach pajama pants with a long-sleeved white blouse tucked into the waistband. She was sure it was covered in filth from the sidewalk now. The boy’s scowl gradually melted into a softer expression, a light smirk tugging at his pink lips.         

            “Y’must be blind, then,” he offered his hand and she took it gratefully, allowing herself to be pulled to her feet by the stranger. “Were ya’ walkin’ with your eyes closed?”

            His hands were _huge;_ at least twice the size of her own feeble paws. She stared at them even after he let go, his thick fingers twitching slightly against the disheveled tan fabric of his Steampunk trousers.

            “Nothin’ like that, I’s just distracted, that’s all.”

            “Well, next time, y’pay attention to where you’re goin’.”

            Moira glanced up at the ancient brick building towering above the two children. The stained wood sign displayed above the entry way read, _Little Brothers and Sisters’ Orphanage_ in faded yellow paint. She pointed up the stairs before them. “You live here?”

            The boy snorted crudely. “Yeah, s’pose I do.”

            Moira glanced back at the boy. “Don’t matter. It’s nicer than my place.”

            “Where’s that?”

            “The brick apartment complex over on Marion Avenue.”

            The boy’s eyes widened in surprise. “Y’don’t look like the goons that sulk around the Marion block.”

            She shrugged at his comment. “No where else to go.” Her father, a night-time janitor for an office building on Bedford Park Avenue, hardly made enough to pay the rent for their one-bedroom shack on the fourth floor of the complex. Moira’s mother, who had given birth to her baby sister no more than 6 months prior, performed daily household chores for farmers in exchange for a portion of their crops. She would milk the cows, clean their homes, and even cook their dinner for a small ration of household essentials. Moira, being an innocent seven-year-old beauty with the best puppy-dog pout on the east coast, was sometimes able to sweet talk a middle class family for a little extra food during the week to bring home to her family. It was the reason why her parents allowed her to run free around the neighborhood so often. She always found a way to lend a helping hand.

            The kid eyed her curiously, his head tilted to the side slightly as he sized her up. An old Austin Seven chugged past on the blacktop, honking at a group of giggling children as they darted in its path. It felt like an eternity before he spoke again.

            “So, why are ya’ over here?”

            “I come over to this side of town a few days a week. Sometimes rich people visit the shops, and they give me food cause’ they feel bad for me.”

            He chuckled, flashing a side-smile in her direction. He had pretty nice teeth for an orphan, not yellowed and crooked like most children from the slums of the Bronx district. “A business woman, eh? I like it.”

            Moira smiled back at him proudly, happy to provoke such a reaction out of someone. “Thank you kindly. Glad someone around here appreciates my work.”

            “Y’hungry?” Blue-eyes suddenly nodded towards the orphanage. “I think for lunch we’re havin’ beef and cheese casserole. Trust me, it’s better than it sounds.”

            Moira looked up towards the sun. It sat damn near the center of the sky. She didn’t need to be back home for a few more hours, at the least. She met the boy’s blue eyes once again and nodded. “Sounds good to me.”

            Moira started for the stairs before a strong hand grasped her forearm. “Wait,” she turned towards Blue-eyes, that same side-smile plastered onto his face. “I never caught yer’ name.”

            Moira peered at him from under her lashes and opened her mouth to answer him. “M-“

            She felt something large and furry scurry across the tops of her white Tennis sandals and glanced down, making direct eye contact with the largest rat she had ever seen. She shrieked mid-sentence and just about leaped from the straps of her shoes. “-EEPS!” She finished, kicking at the rodent as it scampered down the stairs and into a nearby alleyway. She was breathing hard, her eyes as wide as saucers.

            “ _Meeps?”_ She locked glances with Blue-eyes who was chuckling behind his fist. He had a very amused and relaxed expression on his face.

            Moira gulped and shook her head frantically. “N- _no,_ not _Meeps._ That’s the dumbest name I ever heard.” She sputtered, a blush creeping into her cheeks quickly. “It-It’s _Moira._ Moira Maines.”

            “Yeah, _sure_ it is, _Meeps.”_ He grinned, his eyes filled with mischief. Moira groaned and rolled her eyes.

            “That’s _not_ my name.”

            “It is now!” He snorted as he strode up the steps ahead of her. He turned halfway up the staircase to glance back. “Hope y’know I ain’t ever callin’ you anythin’ else.” He winked.

            “I figured.” Moira sighed, trailing along behind him to the moldy entry door. Before he reached for the doorknob Moira piped in. “Hey, y’never told me your name.”

            He put a hand on the knob and peeked over his shoulder behind him. “Frank. Frank Hartley.”

            “Nice to meet you, Bronx,” she smirked at her new nickname for the orphan, and it was his turn to roll his eyes.


	2. Chapter 2

            As the months flew by Moira found herself spending less time in her cramped apartment and more hours adventuring with Frank through the streets of Bedford Park. Each morning she would scarf down a small serving of bread and butter for breakfast, kiss her Ma and baby sister goodbye, and be out the door; bounding down the deteriorating stairs to the lobby floor with a smile on her face. In such a short amount of time Frank had become more than just the cynical orphan with the thick cadence; he had developed into her personal confident, her partner-in-crime, and more importantly, a friend. The nuns at the orphanage had come to recognize and know the girl over the course of a few weeks, sometimes scooting Moira an extra plate of food to bring home with her for supper. Moira’s family had been worried at first about her long absences each day until plates of pre-cooked chicken and green vegetables began making frequent appearances on the molding kitchen counter in the evenings. Who were they to complain about extra meals for their already struggling household?

            Moira learned quickly that Frank was sharp. Not only was he intellectually advanced in the sense of literature, but he was street smart. He spent hours each day studying people: how they walked, talked, ate, even worked. He was curious about how the upper class lived, and Moira couldn’t count on two hands how many hours the duo had spent on downtown rooftops, observing wealthier families stroll through the upscale portion of Bedford Park. Sure, it was boring sometimes-Moira was the type of girl that would rather run a marathon than sit in one spot for seven hours at a time-but for once in her life she had a _friend._ A friend she could have an actual conversation with, share jokes with, have _fun_ with. Moira couldn’t remember the last time she had someone to play with. In fact, Moira couldn’t remember _ever_ having a friend to play with. Even as a toddler.

            Frank was her first friend, and she was forever grateful for running into him that fateful July afternoon.

            Winter came and it snowed constantly. Moira saw Frank less since the sun would set at five. One of the only rules her parents had set for her was a curfew at sunset, no matter what season it was. Bedford Park was livable during the day, but once the sun sank behind the cityscape it was an entirely different setting. Mobsters were notorious for prowling the streets in the evenings, stalking for prey like hungry hyenas. Police tended to avoid the block late at night to avoid conflict with serious gangs, only interfering under dire circumstances. The citizens of Bedford Park were on their own at dusk.

            By the time January rolled around Moira was antsy for longer days. The dark frightened her terribly, and Frank always wondered why she practically sprinted home if she stayed at the orphanage just a few minutes too long. It wasn’t that her parents would necessarily be angry; they understood if she was a few minutes tardy after sundown. But if the sun sank too low behind the block and it became difficult for her to see the road in front of her, she would begin to feel strange. Her chest would tighten to the point where breathing was a challenge, her hands would begin to shake until her entire body would tremble violently, and the world would start spinning around her. Her adrenaline would give her legs the boost they needed to get her home, and she would slam the door to their apartment shut behind her as she panted and shook in the family’s small entry way. Sometimes it would be so overwhelming that her knees would give from under her, sending her limp body crashing to the tile floor like a bag of industrial sand. Her Pa or Ma would have to carry her to the one queen bed the family shared, depending on who was home at the time, and she would cry in their arms until she would finally fall asleep in an exhausted heap of emotion.

            Her parents hadn’t the slightest clue why she reacted this way. It seemed only situations of high stress brought the episodes on: the nighttime, lack of sleep, even intense hunger. It wasn’t until late January when it had happened for the fourth consecutive time in a week that her parents decided to see a specialist about it.

            “Well, the good news is that I don’t see anything wrong with her brain,” Dr. Fraters informed Moira’s parents, peering at the child’s case file in front of him. He re-adjusted the dark colored frames perched on his nose and flipped a page. “She’s your typical healthy seven-year-old girl.”

            “There’s gotta be somethin’ wrong with her, Doc,” Benjamin, Moira’s father, argued and shook his head. “I’mean you heard what we told ya’, the girl’s comin’ home cryin’ four times a week because of the _dark.”_

“I remember what y’all told me, Benny,” Dr. Fraters nodded, turning another page in the medical folder. He laid the documents flat on his desk. “Her blood pressure was a little higher than average, 130/90, but the range varies from child to child.”

            “Are y’sure it isn’t a heart issue? Heart issues wrong rampant in my family tree,” Catherine, Ben’s wife, interjected, leaning forward in her seat. “Why, my father died at 42 from a heart attack. And his father died at 37 before him.”

            “Cathy, your daughter is _not_ gonna have a heart attack before the age of ten.” Dr. Fraters sighed, leaning back in his chair. Dr. Fraters had been working in Bedford Park for almost 12 years to date and knew the citizens of the town quite well. He was the only pediatrician within a ten-mile radius of his office, so he was a busy man indeed. Scheduling an appointment last minute was virtually impossible with his agenda, but he always made time for the locals of the town. Ben and Cathy had lived here for almost eight years and Dr. Fraters had birthed both of their children in their tiny apartment. Her parents were borderline paranoid about their daughter’s health, to the point where Cathy would bring Moira in almost once a month until she turned four if she sneezed twice. Dr. Fraters was patient with her, mainly because he remembered what it was like to raise a first child. Hell, he had raised five of them.

            “Well then what the hell is wrong with her?” Benny was beginning to grow frustrated, tapping his foot wildly against the musty carpet beneath them. Dr. Fraters was quiet for a few moments, planning out what he was about to say next carefully.

            “What if she just has anxiety?”

            Cathy and Benny both looked at him, confused expressions lining both of their stress-ridden faces. Cathy’s head cocked to the side slightly. “ _Anxiety_?”

            “What the fuck’s an anxiety?” Benny ignorantly drawled, pulling a pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes from his shirt pocket and choosing one with trembling fingers.

            “Well, that’s just it, we don’t really _know_ what it is,” Dr. Fraters ran a hand through his sandy blonde hair. “It’s just a concept at this point in time. We don’t really know _what_ it is, just that it _exists.”_

“How do you treat it, doc?” Benny lit his cigarette with his silver plated lighter. He had found it sitting in the gutter near the office building one night, it’s silver exterior glistening in the moonlight just enough to catch his eye. It was the luckiest night of his life. He pocketed the lighter and took a long drag, blowing smoke from the corner of his mouth with a low whistle. “Lay it on me an’ don’t sugar coat it. What’s it gonna take to cure her?”

            “Like I just said, Benny, it’s a _concept._ There is no treatment.” Benny was one stubborn son of a bitch and the entire town knew it. Dr. Fraters pinched the bridge of his nose above the slope of his glasses and closed his eyes. The worst part about it was, he could already tell Moira had inherited that steadfast trait from her father. _Lord, help that girl’s future husband._ He thought to himself with a chuckle. “The idea is that anxiety is some sort of mental complication that causes certain people to experience moments of high panic, to the point where their physical capabilities are impaired. For example, you said that when Moira stays out past sunset, she comes home panting and crying.”

            “Sometimes she’ll fall on the tile.” Cathy added with a nod of her head.

            “Exactly. She’s physically impaired.” Dr. Fraters confirmed. “It’s not something that can disappear overnight. I’ve encountered some individuals with anxiety that live their entire lives with it. It’s just something they deal with. It’s not pleasant, but what else are they gonna do?”

            Cathy and Benny were quiet for a moment. Dr. Fraters could practically see the gears in their brains turning as they processed the information. “So, you’re saying she has some kind of head trauma?” Benny finally spoke through a puff of smoke. “Cause’ I don’t remember us ever droppin’ her on her head or nothin’. And we sure as hell don’t beat her.”

            “Mr. Maines, I am not-oh, forget it,” Dr. Fraters threw his hands up in the air. This man wasn’t going to understand medical jargon. _Gotta put this in words he’ll understand._ “Benny, yer daughter ain’t sick. She’s fine. She’ll _be_ fine. She don’t have head trauma, and she don’t have a disease. It ain’t contagious, neither. She’s just gonna have to deal with it. Try giving her some ice cream or beer when she has ‘em to calm her down.”

            Benny’s face relaxed and he chuckled in relief. “Now you’re speakin’ my language, Doc. As long as you say she’ll be okay.” He reached over to pat his wife’s arm that lounged across her armrest. “Hear that, doll? LaRee is gonna be alright.”

            “Oh my _Lordy_ I was so worried about her!” Cathy praised happily as she took her husband’s hand energetically. “I knew she’d be alright, she always is.” Cathy leaned towards Dr. Fraters’ desk with her free hand extended towards him with a toothy grin spread across her face. “We can always count on you, Dr. Fraters. Don’t know what we’d do without ya’.”

            Dr. Fraters couldn’t help but smile at the couple. They weren’t the brightest bunch in New York, but by God they were the sweetest. The care and compassion they showed their children with the little money they had was admirable at the least. The doctor took her hand and gave it a gentle squeeze. “Always here if y’need me,” he assured both parents, knowing good and well he would be seeing them again in a matter of weeks.

           

           


	3. Chapter 3

            The morning of February 2nd had Moira grinning ear to ear as she opened her eyes, practically flying out of bed and into her bedside slippers. She bound excitedly into the kitchen where her Ma leaned over their two-burner stove, cooking something delectable in a hand-me-down cast iron skillet. Moira’ baby sister, Eleanor, sat in her wooden high chair at the end of the counter, fiddling with one of her rusty baby spoons and giggling to herself.

            “There she is!” Ma sang without taking her eyes off of the stove, grinning ear to ear. She pulled the skillet from the burner and turned the stove’s dial until it shut completely off, using the family’s single spatula to scrape the contents onto a ceramic plate. She set the skillet onto the cooler burner and hurried over to Moira, scooping her daughter into her thin arms and squeezing her tight. “My little dove is getting so _big!_ Happy birthday, baby girl.” Moira laughed into her Ma’s shoulder as she put her back down onto the tarnished tile floor.

            “Thank ya, Ma,” Moira beamed at her mother, taking a whiff of the thick apartment air. “What’s that _smell?_ It smells delicious in here!”

            “I might have managed to find a little somethin’ special at Ron’s plantation the other day,” her Ma motioned for her to take a seat on the tattered love seat in the living room. Moira pranced across the space and plopped down on the cushions; ready for whatever surprises her mother had cooked up for her.

            “You gotta close yer eyes first, LaRee,” her Ma called from the kitchen. Moira obliged, placing her small hands over her brown eyes and smiling wildly.

            “Every eight-year-old needs a nutritious meal to start her day,” Ma hummed, the sound of a plate being set on their hand-made coffee table making Moira ache in anticipation. “Alright, open them!”

            Moira opened her eyes and audibly gasped. In the ceramic plate sat a pile of fluffy scrambled eggs and three strips of bacon, paired with a slice of sourdough bread. Moira couldn’t remember the last time she had eaten a strip of bacon, let alone eggs in the _morning._ It was like a dream.

            “ _Maaaaaa’!”_ Moira practically yelled, her eyes lighting up like fireworks on the fourth of July. The child took in the sight, savored the beauty of a full plate of delicious food _all for her._ Her mother smiled down at her, watching her daughter rave over her breakfast. “This is _amazing!_ Eggs _and_ bacon? You didn’t have’ta sell yer arm for this, did’ya?”

            Ma chuckled and ruffled her hair playfully. “I still have all my limbs, don’t I? Eat up, birthday girl.”

            Moira licked her lips and dug into the meal, the first bite of egg causing her to audibly moan with innocent pleasure. She tried relishing each bite as best as she could, tried to eat her meal slowly to actually taste the morsels in front of her, but she found it hard to contain herself. Before she knew it the meal was gone, the only memory left of the cuisine being a few crumbs and the sweet grease from the bacon strips. Moira leaned back into the couch and sighed, patting her stomach with a content smile spread across her cheeks.

            After a few moments she rose from her spot on the couch and walked her dish to the kitchen sink, her mother busy bouncing Eleanor in her arms to coax a giggle from the child’s lips. She succeeded, the baby’s laughter carrying through the small apartment and ringing sweetly in Moira’s ears. She dabbed a bit of dish soap onto her plate and scrubbed the remainder of her breakfast from the ceramic finish, setting it to dry on the makeshift dish rack to the right of the sink.

            “So, what’s the birthday girl’s plans for the day? Causin’ more trouble, I’m assumin’?” Her mother inquired over the shrills coming from the bundle of pink fabric in her arms.

            “I dunno,” Moira sighed, glancing out of the small stained window in their kitchen. It was a gorgeous day; there wasn’t a single cloud in the sky and the sun shone brighter than it had in months. Moira was quiet for a moment then continued. “Ma? Can I ask ya’ somethin’?”

            “What is it, doll?”

            “Can you-“ She paused for a moment and took a deep breath. “Can you help me, uh- pick out a dress? To wear?”

            Moira’s mother stared at her for a moment, flabbergasted at her daughter’s request. Slowly her eyes began to sparkle like a child in a candy store. “Oh my-Moira, of course! Of course! I would love to!” Her ma hustled from the kitchen towards their bedroom, nodding for her daughter to follow suit. “Lemme just tuck Ella into her bed and we’ll take a gander at our options, eh?” Moira followed her into the family chamber where she was already hustling to situate baby Ella comfortably in her small crib, pulling up the rail when she was satisfied. Ella’s crib was surprisingly one of the nicest pieces of furniture the family owned; Moira’s mother had pulled off a surprising deal with one of the few middle class families in Bedford Park for their now-grown baby’s crib. It was white with little evidence of wear and tear along the paint, and didn’t creak or moan when someone tried to shift the rail or pull Ella from her bed of blankets. When Moira was an infant her parent’s didn’t own a crib. Moira slept with her parents in the same queen-sized bed they all shared now. Moira was almost thankful for it’s absence in her life: it reminded her of a tiny prison.

            Ma’s cheeks dimpled, and the corners of her eyes wrinkled slightly. It wasn’t very often that her daughter sought her help with choosing a dress for the day; it was honestly very rare that her daughter ever wanted help with _anything_ to do with fashion in the slightest. She hated wearing dresses because they made it difficult for her to run in, and she hated doing her hair because it always managed to get in her way when she was wandering the streets. She much preferred a pair of pants and a simple blouse that was both breathable and durable. Something that wouldn’t tear if she took a fall or got into a fight with one of the orphans at Frank’s. She needed to be ready for everything and anything that came her way.

            Her and her Ma were similar that way. Cathy spent most of her childhood on her grandfather’s farm, working the fields during the day and taking care of her siblings at night. Being the oldest of seven rambunctious brothers and sisters, she had her hands full making sure they were as well fed and comfortable while her father worked night shifts at the lumber mill on the outskirts of Aurora. Cathy’s mother had died due to birth complications with her seventh child, Mary-Anne, leaving her husband to care for the seven younglings. They moved into her grandfather’s ranch shortly after, Cathy taking up a good portion of the household chores while her father worked 14 hour shifts to put food on the table for the household of 10. As a result, Cathy could only remember wearing a dress a handful of times before she turned 14. Now that she was older and resided closer to the city, most of the items in her closet included some sort of skirt or dress-like concoction. Once in a while Cathy would break out an old pair of wide legged trousers and a faded bodice when lounging around the apartment or planning on a particularly messy day on one of the farms. Moira preferred the lazy style best on her mother.

            “Alright, let’s see here. We got a lavender and tan gown, another purple skirt…damn, we really don’t have much to work with, huh? That’s alright, we’ll make do,” Her Ma pulled out the lavender frock and examined it carefully. “This could work-maybe if we pair it with a cute set of shoes…” Moira took a seat on the bed and watched her mother fret over her attire, throwing the dress over her shoulder and leaning down to dig through the bottom of the cramped closet. She tossed a few rejected pairs of kicks over her shoulder, muttering profanity to herself before she found the winners.

            “Ahhh, now we’re talkin’!” Her mother freed a small shoebox from the back corner of the closet and turned on her knees to face her daughter, the box placed in her lap. Moira gave her Ma a confused look.

            “Where did that box come from?” She had never noticed it before today. Had it been in there the whole time?  
            “While I was out gettin’ the eggs and bacon, I _may_ have stopped for a little somethin’ extra...” Her Ma opened the box and revealed the Mary Jane heels inside. The leather was a clean beige shade with black underneath, lined with various cutouts along the sides and a simple bowtie to keep it all together. Moira drew in a heavy breath with wide eyes as she admired the pumps.

            “Ma, aren’t these-“ Expensive? Over-the-top? _Unnecessary?_ Mary Jane shoes usually cost $9 at the _least._ Moira hadn’t heard of a single girl in town that owned a pair of shoes that cost more than $2. It wasn’t practical when you could barely supply food for the household. “This must’ve cost you a fortune.”

            “Actually, I only spent $3.50. Put ‘em on.” The shameless pride in her mother’s voice was unmistakable as she held them out for Moira to try on.

            “How the hell’d’ya manage _that?”_ Moira took the box and examined the shoes closely. She wasn’t much for heels but these were _gorgeous._ She pulled them out of the box carefully and slipped out of her nighttime sandals and slowly slid her toes into the shoes’ fine leather. They were so _soft._

“I know a gal,” She winked. Her mother was the queen of bargains. With the bat of her eyes and the quirk of her lips she could bring the cost of a winter coat down from a whooping $15 to $11 with ease. She was slick; a trait you had to have if you wanted to survive in the poverty side of the Bronx district. She may not have higher than a 2nd grade education, but she did just fine without classroom experience. Once Moira had laced up both heels her mother handed her the lavender gown. She shimmied out of her tattered pair of yellow and grey pajama pants and pulled her yellow sleep shirt over her head, slipping the dress over her torso and letting it fall over her body like a mid-summer rain. She rose delicately from her spot on the bed and allowed the skirt to fall over her thighs, the fabric stopping at her knees. Moira gave her mother a quick twirl and looked to her for approval.

            “Good Lord, LaRee, I don’t even recognize ya’,” Ma breathed and shook her head. “You’ve ne’er looked so stunnin’.” She rose from the floor and flew to the bathroom. She strode back in with a hairbrush and a few bobby pins. “Now, if you’ll hold still fer a few minutes I’ll fix up yer hair…”

            Moira waited patiently for her mother to finish with her hair, combing through her brown mane and inserting bobby pins when necessary. When she was finished her mother turned her daughter in a half circle until their eyes met, leaving her Ma speechless.

            “How do I look?” Moira performed a teasing curtsey and giggled, feeling proper and borderline ridiculous. She felt like one of those show girls from Manhattan that she always saw in the newspaper. Her legs felt naked without the usual pajama pants she regularly sported when she was out of the house. And she felt _tall._ Her mother was short, hardly reaching 5’5, and in her heels the top of Moira’s head reached the curve of her chest. Her Ma shook her head.

            “Whatever boy yer tryin’ to impress won’t be able to resist ya after today,” She nudged with a smirk, tucking a wisp of Moira’s hair back into its rightful place on her scalp. “What’s his name again? Frank?”

            “I ain’t tryin’ to impress _nobody,”_ The girl scoffed, stomping clumsily over to the bathroom to examine herself in the scuffed-up mirror. She practically choked on air when she caught sight of herself. Her Ma was right; she was barely recognizable with the new get-up. She turned to the side a bit to examine the slight puff of the gowns sleeves, the gold buttons down the middle of the fabric glistening in the sunlight streaming from the bathroom window. Her Ma had pinned her locks into two elegant loops on either side of her scalp, letting the rest fall like waves against her back. Moira usually opted for a high-rise ponytail or a loose braid for convenience. She adjusted the white flaps of her V-neck collar and smoothed the material around it, rather proud of how well she cleaned up. “It’s just a special occasion is all.”

            “Y’say that now,” Her mother called from the bedroom as she pulled baby Ella from her crib. Moira stepped softly from the closet-sized bathroom and paced down the small hallway, practicing her stride to avoid appearing like a novice heel owner in public. “But you’ll be tellin’ me otherwise when I’m helpin’ ya sew yer weddin’ dress.”

            “ _Ma!”_ Moira miffed over her Ma’s laughter. She could hear Ella gurgling behind her as her mother followed her into the front area.

            “Y’better get, birthday girl.” Her mother slid Ella back into her high chair and leaned down to give her daughter a chaste kiss on the cheek, Moira reciprocating the action.

            “Thank you for everything, Ma.” Moira expressed, feeling blessed to have such a stable and caring family. They may not have any money, a nice house or clothes, but they had a roof over their head, a few meals a day and the support of each other. In the end that was all that mattered.

            “Gotta spoil ya sometimes, LaRee.” Her Ma smiled softly, kissing her nose. “Have a great day today, and be safe.”

            Moira gave Ella a kiss on the forehead and hurried for the door, turning the faded gold knob and wincing slightly at the high-pitched squeals that emitted from the rusted door hinges as the doorway widened. She stepped out and peered over her shoulder one last time, giving her little family a gentle wave before pulling the entrance closed behind her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These last few chapters have had a lack of Frank and Moira together, but the fluff is coming I promise. Next chapter is on it's way.

**Author's Note:**

> This first chapter was pretty short, the upcoming chapters should have more length to them. Stay tuned for more chapters coming soon!


End file.
